


when it meant something

by seenonlyfromadistance



Category: Philip Marlowe - Raymond Chandler
Genre: M/M, The Long Goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seenonlyfromadistance/pseuds/seenonlyfromadistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a night and morning between Marlowe and Terry Lennox, before Mexico.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when it meant something

**Author's Note:**

> ugh this is 100% self indulgent.

There was a night with Terry Lennox that I haven't spoken about. I kept it to myself and don't think I'm interested in sharing it very far.

It was a night late in our association, and though I didn't know it at the time it was clear things were going downhill for him. He was ready to run away and I didn't see the signs because I wasn't looking for them. There were a lot of things about Terry I didn't look for, and so didn't see.

We had been drinking for most of the evening, Terry more heavily than myself. He was soused, up to his ears in liquor, and leaning very heavily on me as we left Victor's. He had spent the last half hour in a booth with me, his hands reaching across the table like a cat playing with cufflinks. 

"Let me take you home," I said. He had one arm around my shoulders while the other pawed at my chest. 

"No, I don't want to go home." Good, I thought, since I didn't exactly know where he lived. This is when he was married again to Sylvia, and I never went to that house. He made a point not to invite me, and I wasn't very interested in seeing it.

"Where then, Terry?" He played with the buttons on my shirt, up by the collar, under my tie. I didn't bother to try and stop him.

"Take me to your place. Take me to your house on the hill," He said quietly against my neck. I could feel his breath hot against my skin and it gave me shivers. 

"Okay," I said. "We'll have some coffee and then I'll take you home."

"No, no, I don't want to go back there," He insisted as we started making moves towards my car. Mostly I was carrying him, though he made an effort to help. When we were still he managed to get his legs under him. "I don't want to go to that house and that woman. I want to stay with you."

"Okay, Terry, okay," I said. 

I poured him into the passenger side of my car and then went around to slide under the wheel. He leaned into his corner of the car and I drove. I drove slowly and gently, because I didn't want him to get sick, and for a little while I think he fell asleep. I was drunk enough that I probably shouldn't have been driving, but in one of those lucky ways the roads were mostly empty and no flashing lights stopped me.

By the time we pulled up to my house, Terry was awake and staring at me.

We took the stairs together, one at a time. 

I unlocked the front door, dragged Terry inside and placed him on the couch. He pulled me down with him and in a mess of limbs we tangled on the davenport. He rolled over me, most of his body pressing against mine, then he lost his footing and slipped down until his knees were on the floor. 

"Phil..." He groaned, laughing against my knee. "Philip..." He looked up at me through his pale eyelashes, and I felt a shiver of ice run down my spine. His fingers started to fumble at my belt-- and it was at that moment that I pushed his hands away and stood up. His hands dragged all over me as I did.

"I'll make us some coffee," I said in a tight voice. 

I left him kneeling on the floor with his forehead on the edge of the davenport and went into the kitchen. I took down the coffee grounds and leaned against the counter for a moment, thinking about how his fine white hair had spread over the fabric of the couch. I was dizzy from drinking, but thought I could use a little more. I pulled out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinets and poured myself a slug into a coffee mug. I took a deep breath and poured the whiskey down my throat. I turned around to check on Terry, only to find he wasn't in the living room any more. His jacket was tossed over the back of a chair, but he was gone.

Thinking he had crawled off to the bathroom, I abandoned the idea of making coffee and walked down the hall in search of him. He could handle his liquor well, but if he was going to vomit I wanted to be sure he didn't choke on it. I didn't find him in the bathroom, but the light was on in my bedroom, and I followed it to find Terry laid out on my bed, feet hanging off the edge and shirt half unbuttoned.

"Terry, come on," I said. "Let me take you home."

"No, thank you," he said, ever so polite. "I'm very comfortable right here." I frowned. His hair was lit up by the dim light in the room, and under it he looked very young.

"Come here, please," he whispered, and threw his arms wide. With a little blush he twisted his fingers into the pillowcase. Exasperated and feeling a bit tight in my chest, I went over to the edge of the bed, ready to carry him back out to the living room. I bent over the bed and before I could get my hands on him, he took hold of my ears, pulled me close, and kissed me hard on the lips. 

I didn't do anything but put a knee on the edge of the bed. 

Eventually he let go of my mouth and his fingers slid into my hair. I didn't know what to say, so for a minute I didn't say anything. We just stayed there, frozen-- Terry sprawled out on my bed, languid and loose, me locked up tight above him. We just stayed there and breathed each others air. And then he kissed me again, softer, and I let him.

Then I said, "Terry, I'm not..." But I couldn't finish the thought. I didn't know if I even wanted to. He kissed my cheeks. "I'm not..." I didn't push him away, or feel anything but a low warmth in my belly. "I'm not..."

"It doesn't matter," he breathed. His breath smelled sweet, not like gin at all. "I want to be with you, and that's all." 

"Okay," I said, like an idiot. 

Terry pulled at my tie and pushed off my jacket, and for the second time that night pawed at my belt. I was stiff and anxious, and Terry kept kissing me, gently and warmly and sweetly. He slipped me a little tongue and I opened right up. He kicked off his shoes and I kicked off mine, and I put an arm around his waist and hefted him bodily towards the middle of the bed. I was still holding myself above him, and I didn't know what to do. I let him do what he wanted. Nestled into my pillows, he pulled my clothes off, piece by piece, and tossed them across the room. He kissed my shoulders and chest, shimmied out of his shirt, and then collapsed back onto the bed. 

I looked at him. His pale skin had more scars than you could see with his clothes on. I have scars too-- a couple scratches from knives and a few pock marks on my arm from a case years ago when I got shot up with dope then couldn't stop picking at the scabs-- but Terry was covered in them. One entire shoulder was white with scar tissue, matching the long ones on his face. I didn't ask him about them though; I never did. He was lithe and slim and pale, weak looking under his damage. 

"Not too bad, huh?" He said with one of his crooked, frozen smiles. 

"No." I kissed him then, finally relaxing enough to lower my body against his, so we were pressed together chest to hip. He gave a little moan and I found myself half hard. His fingers raked over my back and hips; he pressed his groin against me and I shuddered. It was then I realized that he was experienced at this in a way I certainly was not. "Terry, I don't know what I'm doing." 

"You're fine," he said, thumbing at my waistband. He hooked a leg over my hip. "Please." 

"Please what?" 

He ground up against me and I got the idea. We kissed a bit more, and he clung to me, mewling like a kitten. His wedding ring cut cold and sharp into my shoulder, and even though his mouth was warm and wet and sweet, I wouldn't get over that feeling of cool metal against my skin. It just brought to mind cruel women and broken promises.

"I can't," I said. It had hit me suddenly. "Terry, we can't. You're drunk and..." I pulled away a bit and Terry closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths and when he opened them again, his eyes were clearer and more sure than I had ever seen them. He looked completely sober. Terry Lennox looked at me with clear eyes and flushed cheeks that made his scars stand out against his skin. 

"Please, Marlowe," he whispered. "I want to." He looked at me very seriously, nodded, and kissed me again, all gentle tongue and soft lips. "I want to with you." And I gave in. 

I reached into the side table for something I usually use just for myself, and Terry talked me through the rest of it in soft whispers and soothing groans. He bruised me with his fingertips and made high pitched noises in the back of his throat. Mostly he stared at me and I stared at him and we left our mouths close to each other but not always touching. I asked him over and over again, "are you alright?" and he nodded and said, "yes, keep going." I looked at this eyebrows, which were darker than his hair, and wondered if his hair had always been white or if something traumatic had bleached it out for him. I wondered what he had looked like whole and undamaged, and I kissed the scars on his jaw.

It was messy and hot and exhausting and pretty wonderful, really. In the end he came over his stomach and my hand, and wouldn't let me move to clean him up for a long while after. He just held me still and very close to him and we panted together. He wiped sweat off my forehead for me. Finally he was the one who got out of bed and came back with a wet hand towel and made me embarrassed by how considerate he was. He wouldn't let me do anything, wouldn't even let me sit up out of bed or pull my underclothes back on. He brought me a glass of water and then slipped back into bed next to me. 

"Alright there, Marlowe?" He said, but not really to me. He said it to my shoulder as we settled into the pillows.

"Yeah. You alright, Lennox?" He nodded. I put a hand back into his fine white hair and we were quiet for a while. I was tired and still a little dizzy, but I felt like we had unfinished business. 

"You care about me," he eventually said. It wasn't a question.

"Sure," I said. I felt the muscles of his back tighten. "Yes. Yes, I do." 

"I care about you too, Marlowe."

"Thanks."

"You're a much better person than I am."

"I don't think so." 

"I do." He looked at me long and hard, and I memorized the color of his eyes. 

We slept tangled up together, arms wrapped around each other and legs intertwined. It wasn't very comfortable but it felt like the thing to do. He slept with one hand on the side of my neck, me with a hand on his shoulder. In the morning, I left him sleeping while I showered and shaved. It was a bright sunny morning and his hair looked so, so white. He was too young to have hair that white.

He crawled out of my bed and pulled me back into the shower with him. It was a leisurely morning unlike any I've ever had, and certainly unlike any I'd ever had with Terry. He was easy and affectionate and playful-- and absolutely sober. Meanwhile, I had a headache that hadn't quite grown into a hangover. We had breakfast and coffee and he stepped out the back door for a minute to smoke a cigarette and look at the view. I watched him through the window while another pot of coffee brewed. He looked very handsome, I thought, standing out there barefooted and in his shirtsleeves. He ground out his cigarette after smoking only about half of it and came back inside. I noticed he was walking with the slightest limp. 

I gestured to it as he came into the kitchen. "Are you alright?" 

He blushed and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm fine." He paused. "I'm great. I'm happy."

This knocked me off balance. I thought about it for a moment. I was content, I was comfortable... I looked over at Terry, sitting in the nook with a cup of coffee and a dirty plate in front of him. He looked at me patiently, with a very small smile on his face and a look of absolute affection in his eyes. No one had ever looked at me like that before. 

"Me too, " I said. 

We drank another cup of coffee and the day came into it's adolescence. I knew we couldn't play house forever, so I got him dressed and said I'd drive him home. Just as we were walking out the front door, Terry stopped me and closed the door again. He pushed me against it and kissed me one last time, for a long time. He ruffled my hair and wrinkled my suit and it was very desperate. He didn't say anything when he was done. He just looked at me in my disheveled and startled state, and then pulled open the door and walked out to the car. 

He folded himself into the far corner and told me to drive him back to my office, because his car was nearby and he could get himself home from there. I did just that. The spell of breakfast was broken and we drove in silence. I parked a few blocks from my office and we sat in the car for a while together. We each had a cigarette and when we'd killed those, Terry got out of the car and walked over to my side. He leaned through the window. 

"Thanks for the lift."

"Any time," I said. His long fingers traced the lip of the window. He gave a crooked smile and looked up and down the street. It was dead empty. 

"See you," he said, and leaned in to press his lips against my cheek. 

"See you," I said. His fingers closed on my shoulder for a second and then he sauntered off towards wherever his car was parked. I watched him go, his hips moving under his light colored suit and his hair loose over his ears and forehead. He looked back once to wave weakly at me, and then turned the corner. 

I went into the office but found I couldn't focus. I was thinking about Terry. There was nothing to do, and sitting around stewing all day sounded unbearable. So I locked up and went home and got back into bed. My sheets smelled like him, and like lime juice and sweat and sex, but I didn't mind it. I didn't change my pillowcases until the smell of him faded, which wasn't until after he had gone to Mexico. 

The next time I shared my bed with someone, it was with Linda Loring months later. I changed the sheets immediately after she left the house. I hadn't been much interested in her, and she held no thrall for me. I didn't think about her after she was gone; I thought about Terry. I had wild, foolish fantasies about going to Mexico to see if I could find where he had died-- or faked his own death as I was coming to think. I thought about finding him again, how I had known him. I imagined it all so romantic until the exact moment it actually happened, at which point all the fantasies collapsed in on themselves. I imagined he would come back to me, would say to me, _Come to Mexico with me, Marlowe. Run away with me and let's go see if we can be happy._

Which is what he eventually did, of course. He came to my office under a different name and with a different face, but with the same eyes. I was cold to him then, angry that he had tricked me, put me through so much, let me hurt so badly. I was angry about the Wades as well, of course; I was angry with him about so much. He had hurt me and then sat so casually across my desk from me, with that Mexican face. He knew it was over though, and he let me go. He could have tried harder to win me back over, and eventually I might have been won. But he didn't. Instead, as he stood up to leave, he came around to my side of the desk and kissed me just once, just on the cheek with the nerve damage. I hardly felt his unfamiliar lips. 

"Thanks for everything, Marlowe," he said. "I'll write you."

"Don't bother," I said bitterly. He looked at me sadly and put his dark sunglasses back on. 

"Well, alright. Farewell. I care, you know." His voice was tight like he was fighting back tears. "I do. I always will. I was happy with you once and I think we could be again. You're always welcome in Mexico."

I didn't say anything. I just stared at the blotter on my desk. He put a card down in my line of sight-- hand written with a Mexican address on it. 

He ran his fingers along the back of my skull, through my hair, and then he left and he didn't look back. I just stayed at my desk and listened to him go.

And that was it. 

What's happy, anyway? Who needs it?


End file.
